


Feathers and Fur

by round_robin



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Background Relationships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Griffin School (The Witcher), Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Witcher Lore, Winter At Kaer Morhen, minor injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Collection of my Lambert/Coën prompts from tumblr.
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739158
Comments: 49
Kudos: 96





	1. "Don't leave me alone."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having major Lambert and Coën feelings, so I decided to start posting my Lambert/Coën prompts. I only have two so far, but they're sweet and I do enjoy these two together.
> 
> This was a dialogue prompt, "Don't leave me alone," requested by anon. Only implied sex in this one, but poor Coën has been through a lot. Lambert will make it better.
> 
> Rated M

Lambert was twitchy. A few seasons on The Path, he learned which warning bells could be ignored and which needed immediate attention, but there was nothing around. He was in a forest filled with forest noises and forest smells, animals shitting and fucking nearby, leaves falling from trees as the cold weather encroached on the land. Only one more week and he'd be at the base of the trail, a few more days after that, he'd be home. He hated to admit it, but the old castle actually was a home now, Geralt and Eskel the only other residents, Vesemir haunting the halls year 'round, keeping it cozy for them... Sure, he still had nightmares and flashbacks of their brutal upbringing, but sitting in front of the warm fire in the library or in his very own room, there were worse places to be.

A twig snapped and Lambert shot to his feet, sword in hand. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his own hammering heart drowned out the noises he now needed to listen for. After a few calming breaths, he managed to get his pulse under control and listened again. He knew there was a reason he didn't trust this forest. Bandits? Did someone see his fire and decide he looked like a good mark? If they saw the sword in his hand, maybe that would change their—

Another sound, feet dragging, stumbling through the underbrush. Very loud bandits apparently. He heard a heartbeat and frowned; too slow for a human, too fast for a Witcher, not an animal, definitely humanoid. What the fuck was in this forest with him? Lambert didn't have much longer to speculate when the trees in front of him shook, the brush parting.

A man fell to the ground and into his camp, alchemy bag falling from the shoulder of his shabby armor, two swords barely clinging to his back, their straps almost worn through. A Witcher? “Fuck.” Lambert dropped his sword and approached, but stayed out of stabbing range. He'd met a few other Witchers on The Path, from other schools, Bears were perfectly happy to growl and posture, but a Viper would fucking stab you if they didn't like the look of you. Luckily, Lambert was considered friendly for a Witcher and got along fine with most. Yet this one was beaten, half starved, probably not in his right mind.

He stood by and waited, listened to the irregular heartbeat as the Witcher tried to get himself together, aching to crawl towards the warmth of Lambert's fire. Finally, with a shaking breath, he lifted his head. Sickly, yellow-green eyes shot through with blood met his, lips trembling. “Please... please help.”

“Coën? Fuck.” Dropping to his knees, Lambert hauled Coën closer to the fire, rolling him over onto his back and searching for injuries.

Coën all but melted into him, whatever stress he'd been under finally breaking him. His eyes fluttered closed when Lambert's hands brushed his neck, checking for a fractured spine, swelling, something serious he couldn't fix. Lambert was so focused on getting Coën warm—fire, then tend injuries, food if he was up to it, looked like he needed it—he didn't hear the whispered words at first.

“What? Coën, what's going on?”

Strong hands latched onto his wrists, eyes suddenly wide and filled with panic. “Don't... don't leave me alone. _Please_.”

“I won't, I promise.” The tension left him again and Coën passed flat out. It was worrying, but allowed Lambert to check him over a little better, remove his armor, which was in such bad shape, it offered almost no protection. “Fuck,” he hissed again and got to work.

The scent of cooking food roused Coën a while later, his body ached when he tried to roll over and a firm hand on his shoulder held him down. “Don't move, not until you tell me what's wrong. You don't seem injured...”

He knew that voice, he recognized it from a chance meeting a few years ago, another set of yellow eyes across the tavern. Coën enjoyed meeting his fellows and sauntered over to the Witcher, eyeing the Wolf medallion around his neck. “Lambert,” the Witcher smiled, draining the last of his pint. “You play Gwent?” And now, Coën looked up at Lambert again, in the middle of the woods in the middle of fuck knows where.

“Lambert... wha—” he stuttered.

“Shush, take it slow.” A bowl filled with warm stew pressed to his lips, the smell of meat almost overwhelming to his starved senses. “You probably need to start with something thinner, but 's all I got. Wanna tell me what the fuck is wrong? You're a long way from Poviss.”

Pain clenched in Coën's chest and he coughed, choking on the stew. Lambert pulled the bowl away and rearranged them, lifting Coën's head to rest on his lap, elevating him so he didn't fucking choke to death on Lambert's shitty cooking. “Can you tell me what happened? You look...” Lambert didn't need to finish the thought, Coën knew how pathetic he looked, and he felt even worse.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered. “It's gone. Kaer Seren. There was an avalanche, magic...” Coën felt himself start to pass out again. “Please. Don't leave me alone.”

The next time he woke, it was morning. Lambert had the camp packed up and was sitting by his side, waiting. Seeing he was awake, Lambert stood. “You good to travel? Not far, there's a town. We can get you some good food before we head north.”

Coën didn't think he'd be strong enough to walk, never be strong enough again after what happened to his home. Jealous of their library—of all the fucking things—mages wanted their secrets. When the Griffin elders refused, knowing better than to trust magic users, they brought the mountain down on top of them. For days, Coën helped dig, looking for survivors and knowing they'd find none. After that, he staggered away with what he had left of his gear, mind in a fog of grief, until he saw the fire. How long had he been walking? He couldn't remember...

He sat up, surprised by the strength in his limbs. “Swallow,” Lambert said. “Fed you some while you were passed out. Town's not far. Once you have some food in you, we'll take the rest of the trip slow.”

“The rest of the trip? What trip?”

“To Kaer Morhen.” Leaning down, Lambert pulled Coën to his feet. Once he proved himself to be steady, he started walking, peering over his shoulder until Coën followed. “You're in no shape to travel on your own, you can winter with us, one more mouth to feed won't break old Vesemir.”

“Vesemir,” Coën repeated. “Yes, I remember.” The School of the Wolf had fallen some years ago, a more disturbing end than what Coën had just seen. Fanatics running in to destroy... He pushed the memories of the story away, his mind too raw with his own grief, and followed.

For the next two weeks, Lambert never left his side, always there when Coën woke from a fitful sleep, right next to him in every tavern they stopped at, guiding him up the Witcher's Trail that ringed Kaer Morhen. He didn't ask Coën what happened, not once. The short time he spent with Lambert before—one night drinking and gambling together in a tavern—he knew him to be a bit of a joker, he tried not to take life too seriously. But when those perfect golden eyes roved over him, checking for injuries or discomfort as they traveled, Coën knew the facade Lambert showed to the world was truly there to hide a sharp mind that saw far more than he let on.

Vesemir greeted them at the gates, squinting at Coën. “Kaer Seren?”

Before Coën could open his mouth and try to drag the painful memory out, Lambert waved away his words, pushing passed the Old Wolf. “Can we talk inside? I'm freezing.”

He didn't leave Coën's side even then, not when Geralt and Eskel ran over, pulling him into a huge bear hug before greeting their guest. He didn't leave when they all dispersed to their rooms, following Coën upstairs and dragging him down the hall. “Guest rooms don't have fires going yet, you can bunk with me for the night.” They went to the hot springs together and splashed around in the water with the other Wolves, recounting stories of The Path. No one asked Coën for stories, accepting his silent company.

Lambert sat with him at dinner, passing plate after plate towards Coën, making sure he ate. “Winter weight,” he said. “You'll pack it on here, Vesemir will make sure of it.”

That night, when it was time to go to bed, Lambert waved away Geralt and Eskel's kind invite to join them. “Someone needs to keep Coën warm.” And just like that, Coën found himself in Lambert's bed, hot skin pressed against his as Lambert spooned up behind him, cuddling for warmth, cock only half-hard. He'd heard tales of the School of the Wolf, how _close_ they all were... while the elder Griffins bristled at the impropriety, Coën secretly thought it sounded nice. Brothers in arms warm and together, sharing comfort through the cold winter, and now here he was, sharing that heat and those soothing touches. For the first time since he stumbled away from the ruin of his home, Coën didn't feel empty.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why stay with me? Geralt and Eskel, they wanted you.”

Lambert shrugged, moving the furs a little around them, before rubbing his nose against the back of Coën's neck. Somehow, it didn't feel sexual, but incredibly intimate. “You asked me not to leave you and I promised I wouldn't. You can tell me to fuck off whenever you want, but for now, you have me if you want me.” There was a small kiss at the base of his skull, again, intimate, no desire or lust about it. “And, you know... I know what it's like to be alone. So I'll stay with you.”

Emotion welled in Coën's chest and he held tight to Lambert's hands, holding them like a life line. “Thank you.” He fell into a dreamless sleep and spent the rest of the winter sharing Lambert's bed, well... until the other Wolves came to offer their comfort as well and dragged them all to Geralt's large bed. Only a Witcher truly knew the pain of this life, and only the School of the Wolf truly understood what it was like to watch all their brothers die. But they were still here, and so was Coën. The wound in his heart would never fully heal, but at least he had another place to rest his head when he needed it.


	2. Delivered to Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank fuck, you're finally awake.” Said body slid in next to him, nose notching in Coën's neck, breathing him in. The scent of citrus and impatience swirled around him, which could only mean—
> 
> “Lambert.”
> 
> “Yes it's me, you idiot. What'd you do to get so banged up? And how were we the closest healers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from angry-cajun-lady, who asked for Coën coming to Kaer Morhen injured and half frozen, Lambert warms him up in all sorts of way. This turned out very sweet, less sexy, but it's still cute.
> 
> Rated M

Coën made it up the mountain by himself, he made it passed the Witcher's Trail and it's obstacles, even though he'd only been that way once with Lambert as his guide. He had no choice. His injuries were... better, not completely healed. Internal bleeding was difficult for even Witcher healing, there were herbs he needed, herbs they'd have at Kaer Morhen. He just had to get to the top of the mountain. The fucking cold mountain...

He almost wept tears of joy when he saw the gates. “Vesemir!” he shouted, making the pain in his side even worse. But he was so close, if he had to stand outside and wait for them, he might pass out. “Vesemir! It's Coën! Open the gates! I beg of you!”

He strained his ears to hear muted curses from inside the keep and the scrape of the big front hall doors. Boots ran through the inner courtyard... then the middle courtyard... and finally the outer courtyard. Just as Coën was about to fall to his knees outside, the gates swung open and he fell into a pair of sturdy arms. The white snow around him faded to black.

When Coën awoke, he was naked except for bandages on his wounds, but his modesty was preserved by the thick fur covering him. Aches and pains he'd shoved down, or that had been numbed by the cold, made themselves known and he groaned. “Ah, you're awake.”

“Geralt?” Though the roaring fire was marvelous and warmed his freezing bones, the bright light, his injuries, it made it difficult to focus his eyes. The scent of winter snows swirled around him, along with a head of snow white hair. “Geralt. Thank you, for tending to me.”

Geralt chuckled. “Couldn't let you die out there, now could I? Lambert would be pissed. And Jaskier gave me the big eyes, so...”

“Oh hush you,” another voice, a voice Coën didn't know, moved closer to him. He tried adjusting his eyes and smelled the heat of a human body nearby. A mop of brown hair and two very, very blue eyes came into view as Coën's pupils started to cooperate. “Hello, Coën, my name is Jaskier. Geralt's bard, and friend to all Witchers. We patched up what we could see, is there anything else that needs addressing?”

“Yes, my, my ribs. I believe they pierced something vital.”

“Called it,” Eskel said, appearing in Coën's periphery. He made sure to move slow, not to startle Coën, and he didn't want to spill the concoction in his hand. Coën lifted his head and drank, tasting the bitter, grass and dirt flavor of the exact herbs he needed. He managed half the brew before slumping back. Eskel rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Rest now, you can tell us more later. Sorry we had to strip your clothes, only way we could see how bad it was.”

Coën's mind started to descend back into the haze of sleep. Geralt and his bard knelt on his one side, Eskel on the other, a fire roaring behind them. “Where are we?”

“Great hall,” Geralt said. “We had to get you warm fast. Go to sleep now, you'll wake up in a bed.” Grunting, Coën closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

He woke again, this time in a bed with another naked body next to him. “Thank fuck, you're finally awake.” Said body slid in next to him, nose notching in Coën's neck, breathing him in. The scent of citrus and impatience swirled around him, which could only mean—

“Lambert.”

“Yes it's me, you idiot. I was out on a hunt when you fucking fell through the gates.” A little less urgent now that he found Coën coherent and safe, Lambert nosed at his neck. “What'd you do to get so banged up? And how were we the closest healers?”

A thick arm settled at his waist, being mindful of injuries still wrapped in bandages. His clothes were still missing, though they were probably shredded or too bloody to save. Coën didn't mind his nudity, now that he knew he made it to the safety of Kaer Morhen, into the arms of friends and lovers. He was safe now. He ducked his head and kissed the top of Lambert's hair, a little damp from a dip in the hot springs no doubt. “It's foolish. A forktail and its mate caught me off guard on my way here. I bested them, but my injuries were significant. I was half way up the mountain, already heading here for the season, there was no sense in turning back.”

Lambert grumbled. “Thought you Griffins were supposed to be good with draconids?” Coën scowled, and Lambert kissed the look right off his face. “You're here now, you're safe.” Warm lips traveled down his jaw, over his neck, licking softly at the hollow of his collarbone. “Geralt said you were injured and frozen, gotta warm you up.”

“Mmm, the fire has done that job well enough.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, but kept kissing. “Don't be a dick, Coën, let me fucking care for you.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” The scrapes and gashes on his arms were never very deep, they healed first, the new skin itching, but he was strong enough to wrap his arms around Lambert and hold them close, their cocks brushing together. “What happened to the Lambert 'all Witchers are pricks' theory?”

“We are pricks.” A hand snaked between them and wrapped around his cock, making Coën gasp. Lambert smiled against his lips. “Personally, I'm interested in this prick.”

His still healing ribs twinged, but Coën couldn't hold himself away from the heat of Lambert's body, it pulled him in, warming the last chill from his bones. He almost didn't make it to the keep, he almost died on the mountain and it would've been a very sad death indeed, but now he was in the arms of his friends, looking forward to a truly lovely winter.

It took a few more days for him to heal. Vesemir checked him over, made him drink more of the herb concoction Eskel gave him, then pronounced Coën, “Good enough, don't fuck him too hard,” with a glare at Lambert.

A furious blush stained Coën's cheeks and Lambert sighed. “Don't get shy on me now.” He pulled him back upstairs, making love properly now that all the bandages were off. Coën looked forward to a long winter filled with companionship, sex, and luxurious dips in the hot springs, but every night before he fell asleep next to Lambert, he thanked whatever gods watched over Witchers, that he was delivered into their safe arms once more.


End file.
